


Life 2: The Unhappy Ending

by runabout



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, F/F, Scourge Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runabout/pseuds/runabout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just your average big city AU. Slowburn multichap with lots of fluff and gratuitous self-indulgence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life 2: The Unhappy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah hey just a warning there's some casual ableist language in this chapter. I borrowed the title of this fic from a song by Stars. [You should listen to it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9YtOB2WvXM) I mean, if you want.

It’s a quarter ’til six when you push back the covers and taste cotton on your tongue. Checkered pajama pants make way for pressed slacks and shiny loafers. Today’s your first day! You can’t help the giddy feeling fluttering around in your stomach. As of today you are Terezi Pyrope, legal intern. It has a nice ring to it, you think. You stand in the path of the bathroom mirror, idly running your fingers over the bristles of your over-worn toothbrush. (You tend to brush sorta overzealously. Toothbrushes don’t last long in this household.) Standing as tall as your can manage, ramrod straight as the pinstripes on your jacket, you aim a winsome grin mirror-ward. You look fucking awesome. Not that you can see anything… You’re blind as a bat. But you always look awesome.

The soles of your shoes pat pat down the carpeted stairs leading into the kitchen. It smells like mom’s been burning incense. Patchouli and lavender waft up into your nostrils and tickle your brainstem. Patchouli’s never been your favorite. Makes you sneeze. You swat at the beaded curtain in the doorway and grab an apple from the fruit bowl. The soft snores layering over Steve Harvey’s garbled voice tell you that mom passed out on the couch watching gameshows again. You cover her up with a blanket and plant a kiss on her forehead. You scribble a quick note on the fridge and head out, grabbing your cane from the rack in the threshold.

The heat is record-breaking, igniting the weeds that sprout through the cracks in the sidewalk, and frying hypothetical eggs. Were there any eggs in the street, you're positive they'd fry. Thinking about eggs and metaphors is a momentary distraction from your migraine. The sun’s lighting a fire in your eye-sockets, but you’re used to the searing pain that fills your head with molten lava. You chomp on your apple as you walk up the avenue. Red delicious? Absolutely. When you approach the train station, you take the steps two at a time. The scents and sounds that mingle in a train station are a sensory adventure. There’s a deep rumbling that makes you feel like you’re standing on a giant’s large intestine while it passes gas. The crumbling drywall rattles while the screeching steel tracks sing out of time with scampering rats the size of your head. And, lest we forget, the unmistakable perfume of urine… Eau de toilette.

An R train pulls up to the platform, bringing with it a gust of stale hot air. The breeze settles just in time for the metal doors to slide open with a familiar _fwoosh_. You enter the cart, nabbing a seat near an old lady knitting a mysterious garment. You only know she’s knitting by the clack of her needles. And you only know she’s old because she smells overwhelmingly like mothballs and flowery perfume. _Clack click clack._ Pause. _Clack click clack._ Pause. The repetition is nice and it keeps you from thinking about every possible outcome of every choice you might plausibly make today. Every mistake you might– _Clack click clack_. The train screeches along, seats filling with disgruntled passengers and a smorgasbord of sound fills your ears. _“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Jenna’s a sweetheart and I love her to pieces, but she’s_ …” The bass from someones headphones reverberates erratically, making you shiver. You smell Chinese takeout which you feel a little weird about because it’s six o’clock in the morning. You contemplate the merit of Moo Shu Pork for breakfast, and before you know it, your stop’s up.

You ready your things on your lap and adjust your glasses when you hear the usual muffled, completely unintelligible announcement that you have arrived. Luckily, you are proficient at train speak. _Trainguage_? Whatever. You stand, drubbing many an ankle with your cane as you make your way through the gaggle of people standing near the door. That's when you hear the pop of styrofoam accompanied by a very loud “Man, what the fuck?” The distinct smell of Moo Shu Pork fills your nostrils.

You raise an eyebrow inquisitively at the voice that seems to be aimed at you.

“Watch where you swing that thing, jesus.”

“I don’t make a habit of watching things”, you say, gesticulating with your cane.

There’s a silence, and then a mumbled half-hearted apology. “You were on my bad side, didn’t see the…”

“Bad side?” You don’t connect the dots until the words are out of your mouth.

“Can’t see much at all out of my right eye, hah. You’re not the only blind bitch in the city, ya know? Whatcha gonna do about all this fuckin’ food you knocked outta my hands? This is a new shirt! Bet your ass you’ll find a dry-cleaning bill on your doorstep. Fuck.”

You feel heat rising to your cheeks and pray that it doesn't show. This is definitely not par for the course. Not that crowds normally part at your feet and roll out the red carpet for your royal blindness. This is still New York. But confrontations with angry strangers are a rare and interesting happenstance, most likely because you are very visibly disabled. This person's voice is low and gravelly. They sound about your age, and the bite of cigarette smoke on their clothing is enough to permeate even the stench of shitty takeout. It takes you a moment to realize you are intrigued. This could be fun.

You steel yourself and shoot the stranger the wildest, most unsettling grin you can manage.

“We already have so much in common! I’m blind, you’re sorta blind. It’s like the stars have aligned just so, the gods and goddesses tasked with manipulating the vortices of chance have ensured this fortuitous encounter! Right here, on this disgusting train platform. Tread carefully on this sacred ground. Praise! Praise thee! Your crops will surely flourish this season.”

“You’re fucking crazy."

"That’s another thing we have in common, then!", you smirk.

"But really, I’m covered in shitty Chinese food, help a guy out, would ya?”

“I’d love to stay and wipe the cabbage off of your person, but I’m running kinda short on time here... Let's do lunch next time. Real food, my treat”

“Are you asking me out? You’re batshit, oh my god.”

“Don't flatter yourself, smelly. Anyway, that sure didn’t sound like a no to me. Give me your hand.”

“What, why the fuck would I–?”

You free a felt tip marker from your convenient, business savvy breast pocket and hastily scrawl your phone number on the stranger’s palm in red ink. The hand you grab is calloused and rough, fingers long and thin, knobby at the knuckles. Capable hands.

You’ll be late for showing up responsibly early at this rate, and you can’t afford to put your reputation on the rocks on the _first day_ of your internship. So with a parting blow to your stranger's shin, you bolt for the stairs and push through the turnstile.

A gruff voice echoes through the station, and as your loafer-clad feet rush to the surface you barely catch the end of a very loud “Goddamnit!”


End file.
